Poem #07

I yearn to be in a better place

Where the cool breeze can brush upon my face

And the fresh dew is the first thing I notice in the morning.

A place of gentle hills and clear skies that seem as if they call out your name

Where the forests grow tall

And only the sounds of songbirds and whispering winds can be heard

I seek a place within the arms of the world we were given

Not the one we made